


Gentle Frostbites

by TheDarkFlygon



Series: Fever February [8]
Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Fluffy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Influenza, Light Angst, Prompt Fill, Self-Indulgent, Sickfic, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 05:05:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13697460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDarkFlygon/pseuds/TheDarkFlygon
Summary: [FEVER FEBRUARY - DAY 8: KEEPING IT DOWN]They were right about self-care. He's terrible at it, but he tries his best, as he tries feverishly to prevent himself from going into deliriums.





	Gentle Frostbites

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Fever February!
> 
> yeah it's bad and it's short but heeeeeeh   
> that French essay is wrecking me

They were right about self-care. He’s terrible at it.

 

All alone in an untidy, messy flat is a student desperately trying to tame down what’s currently afflicting him: a powerful, ill-intentioned strain of influenza. Of course, he would catch it: he has been working a lot lately, hasn’t he?

The only reason he even knows why he’s sick is because Henri brought the doctor to him. Otherwise, really, he was barely able to get up. He’s still barely able to get out of bed as he speaks. Well, thinks, since his voice has gone out this morning. That’s painful, by the way.

 

His wobbly arm struggles to reach the washcloth which fell from his head not too long ago. He doesn’t remember when exactly, or how, but it fell off. That’s the issue with being sick: the fever is always the worst. It’s always what strikes him the most. Not the cough, not the stuffed nose, not even the muscle aches and the unending want to end it off once and for all.

No, the fever is the goddamn worst.

 

It’s the worst because, as he is, Florian tends to overwork himself. He knows that. He’s the only one who doesn’t have a problem with it around here. He explains it as passion, the absolute will to power through what fascinates him and encourages him to keep on going and going. He lives for this. He lives for literature, almost in a romantic fashion, wanting to know and master everything he has under his hands.

Other people would explain it as him being a stubborn idiot who can’t ever stop working or thinking about something not his books, or his girlfriend for all it matters. They treat it like he’s been with a girl for the first time: it’s the second, but it’s the first one who knows from the get-go what he really is. Roxanne is amazing and he’s grateful for her: however, she’s a lesbian, and he’s not a girl. That’s not how it works, but they remained great friends after their couple ended in deep respect and profound platonic bonds.

 

It’s also the worst because it messes with his brain badly. Constant headaches, a sharp pain behind his eyes and all around his head, deliriums, illusions, hallucinations. A real bane. He can’t even read when it’s at its paroxysm: it even hurts to open a book when that happens. He can barely open up his phone, actually. And he always wants to bury himself in his sheets, only to desire moving in a fridge two minutes later, then back to cuddling with the heater.

It’s annoying and counter-productive. How is he supposed to work on an essay or take notes on a fantastic book when there’s such a thing wrapped around his brain?

 

Fevers also remind Florian of one thing. He’s easily lonely when he’s sick. Back when he still had parents, his mother would stay at home when he was ill. Roxanne would visit after school. Chris and Henri took care of him after classes or on weekends they stayed at school. But now that he lives alone, in his own flat he pays by himself, he doesn’t have anyone to bother with his fevers and his frequent illnesses because he’s always tired.

His fault. His fault, so he doesn’t call anyone over to see him in wrecked state. A ship sunk in blankets.

His hand manages to grab the washcloth. With the tiniest footsteps, he manages to dip it in the bucket’s water. He has to bring the fever down, and fast. It’s not at forty yet, but if it reaches that stage, he’s good for dead. He never knows what to expect from his fever dreams and his deliriums, except either slipping back into his former selves and spewing his dirty secrets around, or get vivid nightmares and failing to access the sleep he needs to recover quickly.

As he wipes the sweat from his face, he thinks of one thing. It’s been a while since Chris and Henri had to guess why he wasn’t attending class, if they even noticed it. Annabelle would probably notice: they attend the same classes. He’s not so sure for Chris, but Henri was the one to bring him the doctor. They should had noticed he was missing, right? Or maybe he sent embarrassing stuff again…

 

He goes back into his fort of blankets and cushions. It’s freezing and burning all around him. When did he last take fever reducers? He should take his temperature. A thermometer, his mouth, a beeping sound, 39.8. It’s getting dangerous around here. He feels very uneasy, right now, his head is spinning… He can’t pass out now… Not when he’s alone and defenceless…

He hears someone rummage through the door. He has to get up, fast, tell them not to enter. Nobody can see him like that. He looks like garbage. He takes a fever reducer, not giving a damn about when he last took one, and attempts at getting up, but he just falls. His head smashes on the ground, his knees and elbows hurt, his glasses fell off his nose. His vision is blurry.

 

The door opens by itself, and enters a new character into the play. He wishes it wasn’t her, of everyone who knows where he lives.

“Florian, darling??” a familiar voice screams as she runs towards him on small heels.

He rises his eyes towards the source of the sound. It’s all blurry so he can’t distinguish much, but at least, he’s certain it’s her. The warm colours, the perfume, the voice…

“Anna…belle…?” painfully exits his mouth as he coughs immediately after.

 

It seems like she gets down to him.

“Oh my god, darling, you look awful… Let’s get you to bed, shall we?”

He just nods. He doesn’t have any energy left to refuse such a thing. She wraps her arms around him, get him up with some grunts and in an ending pant.

“You are burning underneath… You are lucky I was there…”

 

A few instants later, he’s back in bed, except he’s wearing different cloths and has a fully new washcloth on his forehead.

“You have such a high fever,” she sighs as she looks at the thermometer, “goodness gracious… You need to take care of yourself more, Florian.”

He loves her voice but he also hates the tone she’s taking. He hates hearing her worry in general anyway.

“I tried though…”

 

Annabelle stares at the nightstand next to her, with something between disdain and upset feelings.

“I see so… Fever reducers aren’t enough and you know it, honey. You also need to rest instead of panicking… You know only a few people have the key to your flat.”

“I guess I never learnt to…”

“Hush now,” her tone gets stern, “your voice is almost gone.” She strokes a hand over his exposed cheek (the other one being buried inside his pillow). “Do you need anything else?”

He just moves his head in a pitiful no.

 

No, instead, he just falls asleep because he’s more tired than he remembered, but he gets to fall asleep with her smiling to him and wishing him a good night. He can even feel her kiss before it all goes black.


End file.
